


Quite enough

by bluepointragdoll



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Episode: s02e24 Familia, Established Relationship, M/M, Missing Scene, Sam Hanna loses his patience, failure to communicate like sane people, seriously there is something wrong with both of them, threats are a special kind of affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepointragdoll/pseuds/bluepointragdoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for "Familia": no, Sam really <i>did</i> need to come along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quite enough

**Author's Note:**

> Author's apology: this ends in an awkward place, because there was supposed to be a sex scene; life interrupted and now, several months later, the fact is that I either post as-is or never post at all. Sorry!

"Sometimes," Sam voice says behind him, "you are a world-class asshole, G." When G turns it's to the sound of Sam closing the door, hitting both dead-bolts and sliding the chain home. It's not that heavy a door, even Kensi could probably still kick it in, but it's a pretty clear message - although admittedly G's not sure if the message is aimed at the other two or at him. 

Probably both. But as with most messages whose content he doesn't want to hear right now, G makes a gesture at ignoring it. "Is this really the time and the place for your hurt feelings?" he asks, shrugging off jacket and pulling off hat, dropping them on the piece of shit desk doing service as a table. As places to hole up for the night he's been in worse, but he's also been in a lot better. 

Sam divests himself of coat, hat and keys like the ground offended him recently, metal from the keys and from the zippers and clips of the coat jangling as they hit the floor along with the obligatory noise of impact. "Oh," he says, stripping off his gloves as well, "so you _do_ know what I'm talking about. Glad we're not gonna play what's-my-line on top of everything else. No this is _exactly_ the goddamn time and _exactly_ the fucking place, G."  

It's been a while since Sam's been this mad at him. Actually, come to think of it, G's not actually sure Sam's _been_ this angry with him; even the last time they kicked the shit out of each other for real, not for practice or the job, he'd been more willing to shout and less controlled, and with Sam that meant the anger was scaring him less. That he was more sure exactly where it would take him, that he could trust his boundaries, and didn't have to hold on to everything quite so tight. And weirdly enough, G's actually pretty sure he cares, on some level. It's just not one he can get at right now. The repetition of his name - his excuse for a name - that's meant to pin his attention bounces off weirdly and sideways. 

"I am assuming," he says, dryly, checking both guns and putting one by the crappy table beside the bed, "we're talking about your silent little girl hissy fit when I pointed out that you didn't have to come." 

"Say it again," Sam says quietly, "and when we find Hetty, you're going to be explaining to her why you've got a broken nose." 

_When we find Hetty_ \- the words twist off something in him that's already raw and sore and (maybe the worst part) young and angry and so something he doesn't even want to know is still _there_ let alone vulnerable enough to do this; G twists it back into chill and says, quite calmly, "You _didn't_ have to come." 

He expects Sam to be close, when he actually bothers to turn around; honestly he expects to get hit, to have a broken nose to explain, because there are only a few promises Sam makes that he breaks over and over, including never talking to G again for the rest of his life, and when he is or isn't going to hit someone is not usually one of them. 

He even maybe expects the hand at his throat, or more at his collar, but _not_ the knife that comes with it in Sam's other hand, edge up against G's skin. Or - quite - the look on Sam's face behind it. 

Some movements are instinct: G's hand is already closed around the wrist of the hand at his throat. He doesn't move it, not one way or the other. Sam's good enough with a knife and with first aid that he probably could cut at least part of G's throat and then sew it back together before G died, and at least as far as the part of G that controls his reflexes is concerned, that's not on the agenda.  

"Normally I'd just fucking hit you," Sam says, and if you didn't know him it might sound calm, "but right now you're stupid enough I might actually have to hurt your sorry ass before you started listening." 

The rest of G's caught up now. Measured Sam's grip, guessed the length of the knife, noted the distance to the gun on the bedside table, run through the whole thing and found good odds on getting out of this with no more than a dead body in front of him and superficial cuts. He sometimes tells people he hadn't held a gun until his twenties; he knows he's told Sam that's only because where G ran as a kid, guns were expensive, so people used knives. 

"I'm listening," he says, even, and he doesn't move because the _only_ way he gets out of this is with a dead body in front of him and that will never, ever be Sam's, even if he does have to find some way to sell his soul to the devil to keep it that way. 

Sam keeps the knife where it is, but the other hand shifts as he closes his fingers in G's shirt instead of splaying them out over G's collarbone. "What happened the last time I let you go off alone, G?" he demands, and G's stomach twists and he almost picks the fucking cut just so he can shove Sam away. 

He rolls his eyes instead. "I thought we were over this," he says, and part of him's proud of the tone of voice he manages and another part of him thinks he _deserves_ to get cut for it and all of him knows that it's pointless anyway, that Sam's not going to rise to that, and he doesn't. 

He just punches back, metaphorically, with, "I'm never going to be over it. I just forgave you. The last time I let you fuck off on your own someone important died and then you gave assisted suicide a try yourself and if I hadn't saved your ass you _would_ be dead, G, because those fuckers weren't playing around and Kolchek would sell your ass for a grand, let alone his own fucking life. And I know you know that, because you only act like a fucking idiot, so don't _give me that shit._ Set aside that despite what you sometimes seem to think other people fucking care about Hetty too, yes I _did_ have to come, because I fucking well had to look after _you_ because whether you like it or fucking not that woman is not the only person you're important to." 

G's jaw is clenched so tight if he tries to move it his teeth will shatter, which is probably for the best because he can think of exactly sweet fuck all to say. And now Sam does lower the knife, and does let go of G's shirt and adds, calmer, "And before you even think of sinking that low, I told Michelle exactly what was going on, and _she_ fucking had my bag ready for me when I stopped home. So take your fucking cavalier lone wolf attitudes and fucking shove it, G. Believe it or not I will put up with a lot of shit from you, but you fucking shove _that_." 

He jams the knife point down in the bedside table for emphasis, which even here and now and with all of this, G thinks is a little bit excessive. 

But he doesn't say it. He doesn't actually say anything. 

 

Silence counts as acquiescence, agreement, and almost always has; maybe some day G'll have his head sorted out enough to back down from these places in words, but Sam won't be holding his breath. And maybe not all silences mean that - G can be eloquent with his fucking silences - but there are nuances to it, and the fact that despite Sam having let go of his shirt and the knife, G's still got a loose grip on his arm, is to G's usual layers of nuance what a scream is to a night. 

It's been a long time since he's been this angry with G, since at the very least the first time he realized just how stupidly recklessly careless his new idiot partner was with his own life and how unwilling to actually trust anyone else with the things he actually gave a shit about, while he was at it. He's angry enough still that he's tempted to leave, tempted to unlock the door and go out there and tell Kensi to take the couch and get some fucking rest, even if she was the one who slept best on the plane. 

Sometimes he thinks G can actually read his mind; Sam thinks it and G's grip on his lower arm tightens and his jaw tightens back up too, but different, the way that means G's going to make himself talk, say out loud the _don't_ that his body's already screaming. 

There's always a part of him that wonders why the fuck he's doing this, has been for years, but by now the question's purely rhetorical because he knows the answer, even if it's not one he'd ever share. And the second question is how angry is he, still, really, and how far is he going to push this here and now. 

Because it's really tempting to pull back that one, maybe two seconds more and make it so G has to talk, so G has to _say it_ , say something, maybe even ask. Acknowledge this out loud, with the words he spends so much fucking time avoiding, dodging, disdaining, deriding. And here and now, after all that, Sam knows he could probably make G do it, too. 

And it's really, really fucking tempting. 

Sam gives to that temptation, a little. Does pull one more fraction back and makes G get as far as biting out, " _Sam_ \- " before Sam cuts off the rest of it - whatever it was going to be, and fuck knows, it might've just been profanity - by catching the back of G's neck and kissing him hard. 

G's a liar, and a good one, always has been, probably always will be; it's what makes him good at this, real self locked up so tight the lies he swims in can't touch it. Knowing G means knowing that. And that means there is something, that it _is_ something to be there when the lies break down and he can't say shit because he's no fucking good at telling his own truths and his body takes over and tells them instead - the way his head tilts and his mouth opens, and he breathes like he's been holding his breath. It tells the whole fucking story the idiot can't tell himself and in the end it's why this works. 

It's why they do this.


End file.
